Thirty years ago, Val Blanchard met the love of her life over Christmas break. But after the dancing, the kisses under the mistletoe, and the gingerbread houses were all eaten, he walked out of her life. She never forgot him, and that made it hard to move on.
Richard Cook didn't forget either. He lived a good life with the mother of his children until she passed away. Years later, he's wondering about his first love. The girl he gave up to pursue his dream of becoming a ballroom champion. Christmas is in the air as he returns to the small town he last saw her. He's relieved to find her still running the family ballroom until she locks herself in the bathroom and refuses to talk to him.
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A man in his early fifties stood several steps above her. He looked like a middle-aged Sean Connery. Great body, dark hair, brooding eyes. There was a touch of gray at his temples, but no flabby abs or saggy cheeks. No age spots. He didn’t even wear glasses. His navy trousers were ironed, and the red sweater over a gray button-up shirt lent a festive flair to his appearance. She noticed the top two buttons had been left undone.
“Hello,” she started up to meet him. There was something familiar about the good-looking man.
“Val?” His gaze followed her every move.
She froze two steps below him. Those eyes. Of course. She’d longed for those hazel depths every day for thirty years.
“Rick?” Her legs suddenly felt heavy, her knees weak, and her head fuzzy. She grabbed the stair rail, needing to sit down. Or breathe. Had she conjured him up with her gingerbread theme? Maybe she had finally lost her mind.
He joined her on her step, but she still had to look up to meet his gaze. His cologne or aftershave was the same, even after all this time. Lightly spicy, all man and sex appeal, fitting for a Latin ballroom dancer without being overpowering.
“I hoped I’d find you here,” he said.
“How?” She couldn’t find any words. He was back, after all this time.
